Dust
by Aemilia Rose
Summary: Premonitions... memories... nightmares...


Dust . . .  
Pain . . .  
  
Poison air . . .  
  
It hurts to breathe . . .  
  
I can't breathe . . .  
  
Help. me . . .  
  
Ashes . . .  
  
Burning, blistering ashes . . .  
  
They burn . . .  
  
I'm burning . . .  
  
Help . . . me . . .  
  
Dust . . .  
  
Everywhere . . .  
  
Nothing but dust . . .  
  
All is dust . . .  
  
Suffering . . .  
  
Dying . . .  
  
Dying in the dust . . .  
  
Death . . .  
  
Help . . . me . . .  
  
Frodo awoke suddenly, wailing in anguish. He was in trouble! Someone was after him! He had nowhere to hide! After working himself into a terror, the child began crying and sobbing violently. Within seconds, the door to his room opened, and his mother came rushing in, swooping him out of his bed and into her arms.  
  
"Frodo sweetheart," Primula whispered, "what's wrong?"  
  
Frodo choked down another sob. "I-I had a b-bad dream . . ." Primula took a handkerchief out of her pocket, and wiped away the tears that streaked the little one's face.  
  
"Shh . . ." she hushed him softly, "there, there, it was only a dream. Nothing in your nightmares can hurt you, don't worry." Her consoling him seemed to have some effect, and seeing that he had calmed somewhat, Primula set him gently down onto his bed and covered him warmly with a quilt.  
  
Sniffing, the child clutched the quilt to his chest. "M-mamma?"  
  
"What is it, sweetheart?" Primula sat down on the side of his bed, knowing that he would not get back to sleep if she left him alone.  
  
"Are you sure that bad dreams can't get me?" He gazed up at her as if he expected her to be all knowing. Primula smiled.  
  
"Of course they can't, Frodo." She leaned down and kissed his cheek. "Now try and get to sleep, or you'll be too tired for our visitor."  
  
Frodo face immediately brightened. "Visitor! Is Uncle Bilbo coming to visit?" Primula laughed quietly.  
  
"Yes, child, he is."  
  
Sitting up in bed, Frodo exclaimed, "Wow mamma! I can't wait . 'til." He broke off yawning suddenly.  
  
Primula pushed him back down onto the bed. "Get to sleep Frodo. The sooner you get to sleep, the sooner it will be morning."  
  
Frodo's eyes began to droop closed. "Can you tell me a bedtime story, mamma?"  
  
"I'm sure you'll get plenty of stories tomorrow, Frodo." Primula stifled a yawn of her own. She pretended to scold Frodo. "Now see what you've done! Those yawns of yours are contagious!"  
  
Frodo giggled sleepily. "I'm sorry mamma. I'll try and get to sleep so you can too. Goodnight mamma."  
  
"Goodnight sweetheart."  
  
**********************************************  
  
Pain . . .  
  
Frodo struggled to take another step, despite the soreness of his muscles. He had to keep going, he had to get to the mountain. He coughed weakly. It was so hard to breathe. The air in Mordor was like a poison, drying your mouth and sapping your strength. He tried to take a deep breath, and doubled over, coughing. In an instant, Sam was at his side, helping him up and bringing him to his feet.  
  
Dear Sam. He was always there to keep Frodo on his feet. Sam would never let him lie long in the ashes the mountain had strewn across the bleak land.  
  
Ashes . . .  
  
Frodo cringed as his feet met the scalding ground, and he almost fell once more. Trying to ignore the scorches and blisters on his feet, he struggled on a few more steps with Sam supporting him the entire way. He hated this place. Every breath he took made his lungs feel like they burst into flame, the still searing ashes on the ground burned as it came in contact with his skin, and the dust.  
  
Dust . . .  
  
Dust was everywhere. He could feel it between his toes as he stumbled, could smell it thickening the air, and could taste it every time he fell on his face and got a mouthful of Mordor filth.  
  
The pain hindered and the ashes blistered, but the dust got to the heart and soul.  
  
"Nothing in you nightmare's can hurt you . . ."  
  
If only it was that simple and this was only a bad dream. Frodo was caught in the midst of a nightmare and could not wake up. He wished he could just die right there, lie down in the dust and die. But he could not.. Not until the quest was finished. Then he could die, for he knew he was dying.  
  
Dying in the dust . . .  
  
He knew he would not live. He would always know nothing but dust.  
  
***************************************************  
  
"Don't kill us!" he wept. "Don't hurt us with nassty cruel steal! Let us live, yes, live just a little longer. Lost lost! We're lost. And when precious goes we'll die, yes, die into the dust." He clawed up ashes of the path with his long fleshless fingers. "Dusst!" He hissed. (Return of the King pg. 246)  
  
***************************************************  
  
Help . . . me . . .  
  
I can't breathe . . .  
  
(Frodo stirred restlessly in his sleep.)  
  
Suffering . . .  
  
I'm burning . . .  
  
Help . . . me . . .  
  
(Frodo began to moan and shudder.)  
  
Dying . . .  
  
Dying in the dust . . .  
  
Death . . .  
  
I am dead . . .  
  
Frodo's eyes popped open and he gasped for breath, beads of sweat rolling down his face. He shivered and pulled his quilt tightly around himself. He suddenly sighed and whispered to himself, "I guess it was too much to hope for, that I wouldn't get these dreams anymore."  
  
He glanced around his room quickly. He hoped he hadn't mad too much noise. He didn't want to wake Sam and Rosie. They had enough to worry about with the child coming. He waited a few moments, and let out a sigh in relief. No one had heard him.  
  
He slowly and jerkily dragged himself out of bed and stumbled over to the washbasin. Thankfully, it was filled with cool water, and he cupped his hands and splashed some in his face to cool and calm him down. After doing this a couple times, he turned around so he could get back under the covers and hopefully get back to sleep. It was then that he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror across the room.  
  
Listless eyes stared back at him.  
  
Once, they had been innocent eyes had been deep wells of emotion, filled with happiness and love for his friends. What did those wells hold now?  
  
Pain . . .  
  
Frodo sighed and looked away, shaking his head as he sat down on the side of his bed. Since the quest, he discovered that he was hardly ever at ease. He would often become restless, and it began to interfere with his sleep. It was a rare and blessed night when he could sleep without his dreams being interrupted by horror. Something was missing. He found that he was like a flickering candle flame, too weary to go on flaming, and was waiting for a puff of wind to smother it into darkness. What did he have left to live for? What did he have left in his life?  
  
Ashes . . .  
  
Frodo mentally scolded himself. How could he ever think that? He still had Sam. How would Sam feel if Frodo decided to give up now? Sam had helped him escape the suffering of Mordor. He had helped Frodo escape the dust.  
  
Or had he? Could Frodo ever escape from the dust that built up in his heart? He still had not escaped.  
  
Dust . . .  
  
Frodo laid himself down on the bed. He could not give in now. Not after he had gotten through so much. But how long he could hold back the darkness? He was slowly being devoured by it. He was slowly dying.  
  
Dying in the dust . . .  
The end. 


End file.
